A Commodore's Christmas
by Flightstorm
Summary: It's Christmas in the Caribbean, and somebody's not happy about it. There's weirdness, good cheer, and sometimes sorrow. Based off a classic which I hope you've heard of...
1. An Unhappy Commodore

Hello, and a Merry Christmas to you! The following story is played by POTC characters, obviously, but with a twist on a classic which I'm sure you'll recognize. This does not voice my actual thoughts or what I think will happen- it's just for the season! And in no way is this historically accurate- I'm not sure if British citizens in the Caribbean would have Christmas trees. Forgive me. Now, try and guess what it is, dear reader…

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, not the characters, their personalities, nor jobs. Heck, I don't even own the plot.

* * *

Cutler Beckett was dead; there can be no doubt about that. He'd been dead as a doornail for the past fifteen years or so, on a Christmas Eve at that. His life passed very suddenly, and no one had been sad to see him go.

Yes, Beckett was dead all right.

But his partner in business, James Norrington, still lived. And he was liked just as little as Beckett.

Norrington was pompous and upright in his ways, and liked to place himself above other people. He was unmarried, and had been so all his life. If one ever wanted to see him- not that one often would, mind you- they would be sure to find him in his office, counting money or looking over business matters; he rarely did battles any more, as the threat of piracy had sunk considerably lower. And so there he sat, at his grand ornate desk, a few candles lit, the room as dark as his heart had now become.

On this particular day on which this story opens up upon, Norrington was sitting at his desk as usual, scribbling away with a quill. A sallow candle burned beside him, yet its warmth was barely distinguishable. Pedestrians hurried around outside, the upper class with cloaks draped around their shoulders, despite the warm Caribbean weather, and multiple parcels laden in their arms. Norrington paid no heed to any of this- he simply kept his mind on his work.

Another man was seated not too far away, at a much less grand desk, with a much smaller candle stub. He leaned closer to the flickering flame, which was sputtering, and, drawing in breath, glanced at his employer.

"Uh, Mr Norrington," he asked hesitantly, "may I… ask you something?"

Norrington looked up with dark eyes. "And what would that be, Mr Turner? I should be fascinated to hear." His voice was dripping with sarcasm.

"Christmas is tomorrow, sir."

"And? Is there any significance of that, Turner?"

Will cleared his throat. "As it is Christmas, I was hoping I would… be able to have the day off."

"The day off?" repeated Norrington. "To spend with your family, no doubt?" Will nodded. "So your own pleasure is more important to you than your career? No, I expect you to arrive here, as you do every day, promptly and ready to go! Christmas can wait."

Will cast his eyes down in disappointment, but he did not dare argue. Just then the door creaked open- always with a creak- followed by a gust of warm wind, which put out the dying fire on Will's candle immediately. Two men stepped briskly in, brushing off their elaborate cloaks, red in color.

"Happy Christmas, Mr Norrington!" cried Murtogg, grinning.

"And the same to you, Mr Turner!" added Mullroy, nodding at Will, who smiled in return.

"Merry Christmas," he said, eying the wooden box Murtogg was holding. "Collecting money, I presume?"

"Indeed, indeed!" Mullroy said cheerfully. "Got to help those poor little waifs, you know! Make sure they have a happy Christmas; God knows they need it! How much should I put you down for, Commodore? Too bad Lord Beckett isn't here to donate as well!"

"Lord Beckett has been dead for about fifteen years," stated Norrington without a hint of remorse.

"Well, God rest his soul, poor chap! So, how much money can I put down in your name, sir?" asked Murtogg.

"None," replied Norrington coldly.

"You wish to remain anonymous?"

"I wish to be left alone. No more of this wishy-washy "Happy Christmas" or helping orphans."

"B-but the children, sir! Think of those little children!" stuttered Murtogg.

"Are there orphanages?"

"Yes."

"Shelters? Jails?"

"Why, yes."

"Then send them there!" barked Norrington. "We don't need any of these homeless people cluttering the streets, taking our well-earned wages. They don't deserve a holiday! Christmas, bah humbug!"

"But you must-" began Mullroy.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen.

"Norrington, sir-"

"_Good afternoon_." Norrington's voice was as hard and impenetrable as a rock.

Murtogg and Mullroy looked at each other in exasperation, knowing it would be useless to try and persuade the Commodore any further. Will gave them a sympathetic glance, then rose and started rummaging about in his frayed pockets. A few moments later he withdrew his chapped hands and brought out a few coins, which he deposited in the wooden box.

"Thank you kindly, Mr Turner!" Murtogg's face brightened.

"Those children will get their holiday," said Will, smiling softly. "Good luck to you, sirs, and a happy Christmas."

Norrington glared at him, and Will quickly sat down with a cough. Mullroy and Murtogg turned and walked out the door, but another man bumped into them as he bustled himself in. Apologies were quickly made.

"Terribly sorry, gentlemen!" cried the man. "Ah, collecting money! Here's a donation!" The clink of coins sounded out in the dank room.

"Dearest thanks, Lieutenant Groves!" said Murtogg happily. In an undertone he added to the wigged man in front of him, "Although I wish we could say the same for the Commodore. Perhaps you could…?"

Groves understood. "Of course. Well, go about your business! And a Merry Christmas to you!"

Murtogg and Mullroy quickly retreated in response to Norrington's look of death. Groves turned to the Commodore with a look of cheerfulness.

"Merry Christmas, James!"

"Bah!" spat Norrington. "Humbug!"

"Christmas a humbug? Surely you don't mean that, James?"

"You'll find that I do," replied Norrington icily. "Merry Christmas! What right do you have to be merry? There's absolutely no reason for it!"

"Don't be angry, sir!" said Groves, slightly nervous. "Nobody should be like this on so joyful a holiday! Why don't you dine with us tomorrow night?"

"I see no reason why I should waste my time with your meagre friends and family. Why in the world did you marry that simple maid?"

"I fell in love, James."

"You fell in love!" mocked Norrington. "How sweet. Now, do me a favour and get out of my sight!"

"You'll appreciate Christmas one day, sir! Of that I'm sure!" stated Groves happily.

"Good afternoon."

"Merry Christmas!"

This was followed by a growl.

"And a Happy New Year!" Groves added as he backed away.

Another growl.

Groves gulped and scurried towards the door, greeting Will as he left. Will returned it, smiling. No matter how cold his boss was, Will always managed to keep his heart warm.

Norrington shook his head and rolled his eyes, then returned promptly to his work. Will grudgingly did the same, looking wistfully at his extinguished candle.

* * *

Some time later, when Will's candle was but a stub of melting wax, two voices could be heard coming from outside, singing, in very off-key tones.

Norrington stood up and strode over to the iron-wrought windows to see the voices' owners. There, standing out in the snow, looking entirely out of place, were Pintel and Ragetti, holding battered-looking songbooks; Ragetti's was upside-down, naturally. The two were singing at the top of their very hoarse voices, bellowing out to the citizens of Port Royal.

_Deck the ship with bottles of rum!_

_Yo-ho yo-ho-ho! Yo-ho ho-ho!_

'_Tis the season to have fun!_

_Yo-ho yo-ho-_

The carol was never finished, much to the relief of many nearby people; Norrington had thrown a well-aimed paperweight in the direction of the singing pirates, which bounced off Ragetti's head, making his wooden eye pop out.

"Me eye!" The lanky pirate dove to the ground, scrambling for his beloved eye.

"C'mon!" shouted Pintel. "I did tell you tha' this ol' carolin' thing was a bad idea!"

"Bu' I have such a natural voice!" whined Ragetti. "I shou' display it to th' public!" His dirty hand shot out and grabbed the wooden sphere, and, doing his "spit- and-rub" ritual, stuffed it back into his empty socket. That done, the two quickly rushed away, out of range of any paper-weight throwers.

Inside, Will smiled despite himself. Pintel and Ragetti would never truly learn caution.

"They are without a doubt the worst pirates I've ever heard of," sniffed Norrington.

The last couple hours of the day passed uneventfully, and soon the clock struck the closing time. Will hastily stood up and slipped on a coat. Norrington did the same, but his coat was much grander and not as tattered. As the wig-capped man straightened his sleeves, he looked at his employee.

"Remember to arrive promptly tomorrow, Turner!"

Will sighed inwardly and nodded, then walked briskly out the door, eager to return to his family. Norrington moved more slowly and stiffly, without an excited trace in his step. Nearly everybody else on the streets that night was trotting briskly along in anticipation of the joyful holiday to come; but not Norrington. He stalked along underneath the buildings, wielding a walking cane, not looking about at anyone or anything, his only intention to head straight home and stay there.

* * *

He eventually came to his oaken door- large, dark, and foreboding it was- and preceded to take out a rusty key. When Norrington raised his head, he was met by a rather unusual shock.

There, right in the place of the usual rust-flecked doorknocker, was Cutler Beckett's face, staring out at him with arrogant blue eyes. Yes, definitely his eyes- not to mention his nose, mouth, chin… It was indeed Beckett's visage.

Norrington stared at this rather unusual phenomenon, mouth slightly open. His insides giving a start, he closed his eyes and opened them again- but Beckett's face had disappeared, the normal knocker in its normal place. The Commodore stood there dumbly for a few moments, and then shook his head.

"Bah! Humbug!"

But despite his usual gruff complaint, Norrington strode into his mansion and closed the door quite quickly, as though scared Beckett might appear again. As he took off his jacket and hung it on a coat rack, he glanced uneasily behind him, as though expecting to see the back off Beckett's wig in the wood. But he did not, and so he continued up the stairs to his bedroom and supper.

The halls of the Norrington mansion were dark and dismal, with but a few chandeliers and oil lamps illuminating the walls. In its prime, the floors were covered with rich red rugs, trimmed with gold, but now these rugs lay in dust. At a former happy time, the walls were white and the shelves strewn with ornaments and family relics, which Norrington proudly displayed, but sadly these too were in bad need of a dusting. And of course, in one room of the house, his weapons rested, rarely used; the sword that Will Turner had made the Commodore long ago was in its usual spot on an elaborate shelf- but Norrington didn't really have any need for it now, except at ceremonies or when he wanted to make an impression. In short, Norrington's mansion wasn't a very cheerful place- but its owner didn't care.

Norrington trudged into his cold, unwelcoming room, changed out of his stiff attire into a cold, unwelcoming nightshirt, housecoat, and cap, then settled down in a tall-backed armchair to his cold, unwelcoming supper, next to a surprisingly (but not too surprising as you would expect for his character nowadays) cold, unwelcoming fireplace. He glared at the sizzling fire in contempt for a moment, buried his spoon in his porridge, then lifted it to his mouth to take in its contents- but he was cut short…

… by the tingling of a bell.

Then of another bell, and another- and then suddenly every blasted bell of some sort in the house was jingling, clanking back and forth violently.

Norrington dropped the spoon into his bowl and gripped the velvet arms of his chair as the ghostly echoes of the bells sounded in his ears. He shut his eyes tight, praying for them to stop. Much as he hated to admit it, even to himself- this was scaring him.

But if this scared him, he was going to be in for a huge shock for what followed when the ringing ceased.

The clanking of cold metal on ground, like a chain dragging on the dusty carpets, was reverberating from in the hall.

Norrington's hands practically tore into the armchair, nearly ripping the wine-coloured fabric. His dinner tray clattered to the floor, spilling his food. But Norrington didn't care one bit- all his attention was focused on the tall, spindly figure creeping into his room from the ajar door. The room's candles flickered, and their flames shrank, cowering, but they burst up again when the person- but was it a person?- entered the bedroom.

It actually was not that tall at all, but quite short of stature, and transparent, clad in a ghostly coat similar to Norrington's hanging on the rack downstairs, plus a curled wig, also like the Commodore's. Wrapped about its middle was a thick, seemingly heavy chain, and dangling from this chain in all places were boxes, keys, padlocks, and chests of various sizes and types. The figure stared at Norrington in his armchair and smirked.

It was none other than the ghost of Cutler Beckett.

Norrington's jaw was agape as he took in this haunting sight –the third of the night, actually- but he quickly closed it in his brisk manner. He squinted at the ghost and lifted his chin high, trying to ignore the spilled supper at his slipper-covered feet.

"What do you want with me?" he questioned.

"Much," replied Beckett, still smirking. "As I hope you recall, I am- or rather, I _was_ your partner, Cutler Beckett." He stepped further into the room, his ghostly feet making no sound on the floor, but the chain clanking loudly as ever.

"Why are you here?" Norrington tried again, praying that his former acquaintance wouldn't come any closer.

"Do you see this chain, James?" Beckett's ghost shook the coils so that they jangled next to each other eerily.

"Uh, yes, I have to say I do."

"I forged it myself- through all the bad deeds I committed in life. The monopolizing done by the East India Trading Company, the hangings, the arrests of William Turner and Elizabeth Swann- all these events joined up to make links in the chain. And so it grew heavier, and heavier still, with each crime, and now, in the afterlife, I must bear it, and drag it with me wherever I go, the weight unbearable on my shoulders- I can never be rid of it! The same fate could befall you, my dear James- I daresay it already has, no doubt- unless you change it somehow."

"No!" choked Norrington. "Please, don't let this happen! What must I do?"

"You will be haunted," said Beckett, "by three spirits. Over the course of three nights they shall visit you, the first arriving at one; the second at the same hour the following night; and the third at the next midnight."

"And this is supposed to help me _how_?" There was a note of panic in Norrington's voice. "And why do they have to come on separate nights- can't I just see 'em all at once?"

"Nope." The phantom shook his head. "Without their visits, there's no hope for you, Commodore. Without their visits, you will be doomed to my existence."

Norrington glanced at the chain once more, then closed his eyes and drew in a shaky breath.

"Remember- the first will come as the bell tolls one." With that, Beckett sniffed and turned, clanking and creaking out of the room. The last Norrington saw of the spirit as he slid out the door was the dark metal of the chain as it groaned across the floor.

Norrington remained rigid in the chair for an instant, his back drenched in sweat. He hastily stood up and almost ran toward the window, slamming it shut with a _BANG._ Rubbing his clammy hands together, he opened his dry mouth to say his familiar, "Humbug," but the word would not pass his lips. So instead, he whipped around and nearly leaped into his four-poster bed, almost tearing the curtains as he drew them together. Then, the effects of the night dawning on him, as well as the lateness of the hour, he collapsed into sleep.

* * *

Any guesses:D Heh heh… I'll have you know I literally took out the novel and read it while I typed, just to make sure I was getting the story right. Sorry about Norrington's character- I'm not very good at writing him. Ooh, who could the Spirits be???? 


	2. The First of the Three Spirits

A big thank you to all reviewers! I've heeded your responses, and don't worry! I've got most of it under control. Well, here's an update! The first spirit awaits our Commodore… and maybe a tad of W/E… there could be J/N or N/E if you'd like, depending on how you view it. But this isn't meant to be a romance story. Oh well… enjoy!

* * *

Norrington awoke to the sound of the bell tolling. He opened his eyes blearily, expecting to see a thin ray of light falling through the curtains of his bed, but he could distinguish nothing in the blackness. He sat up, making the mattress bounce a little, and looked wildly around, the chimes of the clock ringing in his ears. The bells sounded a total of twelve times before they echoed into nothingness.

_What?_ thought Norrington. _That can't be right- I went to bed at 2:00!_ It made no sense whatsoever, but Norrington merely shrank back under his covers and shivered, cramming this odd event into the back of his conscience, but that only gave way to a new, more alarming thought- the Spirits! Didn't Beckett say the first would arrive at one? That was only an hour away…

So Norrington sat the hour out, staring up at the canopy of his bed, and the time passed much quicker than he would have liked. Soon the clock began beating a tattoo to the quarter hour.

_Ding dong._

Then the half hour resounded.

_Ding dong._

Now a quarter to the hour!

_Ding dong!_

Then one o' clock itself!

_Ding dong!!_

_DONG_.

The gong-like sound filled the room, marking the hour of one. Light filled Norrington's room instantly, barely illuminating the covers of his bedspread- and the drab curtains of his bed were drawn aside… by a hand.

Aye, a hand. A hand with blackened nails, and golden rings around its knuckles, gripping the red curtain and pulling it to reveal Norrington sitting upright in his bed, staring right at the spirit- if that was what it rightly was.

It was an odd figure, yet familiar to the Commodore. He was not exactly tall, but not Beckett's height either. His clothes were long and baggy, and numerous trinkets covered his waist, as well as a scarf that dangled around his legs. A blood-red bandana was wrapped around his thick black dreadlocks, and gold teeth flashed cheekily at Norrington, as well as dark, kohl-lined eyes.

"_J-Jack Sparrow_?" sputtered Norrington.

"_Captain_ Jack Sparrow, if you please, Norri!" Jack gave him a roguish grin.

"Why are _you _here?"

"Gotta show you your past or something. Old fish-face sent me," explained Jack, looking at his compass. "Now get your no good wig outta bed and let's do this thingy. C'mon, chop-chop!" He snapped his fingers, whistled, and turned around with a flourish.

Norrington groaned. _Of all the beings that could have visited me, it had to be him_. He grudgingly stood up and strode stiffly over to the window, which was where Jack was standing.

"Nice nightclothes," commented the pirate.

Norrington self-consciously wrapped his housecoat tighter around himself, glaring at Jack.

"Alright," said Jack, glancing at a sheet of parchment in confusion. "Says 'take the old git out window and bring him to…" He stopped and twirled a finger around in his thinking manner. "… to Christmas of Thirteen Years.'"

"Huh?" Norrington could make neither head nor heel of what Jack was saying. "'_Old git_?'"

"Just saying it like it is," slurred Jack. "Now slap on some of this dirt and we'll fly out the window, savvy?" He opened his hand to reveal a pile of glittering powder.

"F-fly?" Norrington blubbered.

Jack rolled his eyes. "Aye, fly. Lemme clear it up for you and your tiny mind: I will put some of this shiny dirt over you, and said dirt will enable you to fly out your rather drab window, if I do say so meself; otherwise, without special dirt, you will fall, get paralyzed, broken bones, or, in other words, die a miserable and painful death like that of our dear friend Beckett, in which, inevitably, you will require a large and rather superfluous chain which you will drag behind your wig-capped butt for the rest of your days, as we did not get a chance to go to the Past. This would be a lot easier on me, 'cos then I could go home to me rum, but unfortunately, this whole event has entirely nothing to do with me- it's about you, oddly enough. So shut up and wear the dust, savvy?"

Norrington looked clueless.

"Fine. I'll do it meself." Jack smartly slapped Norrington across the face with his gold-dusted hand.

"Ow!" cried Norrington in rage and pain. "Why you no good, pilfering, plundering, cheating-"

"No need for the compliments, Norri." Jack then shoved the pyjama-clad Commodore out the opened window without a moment's hesitation.

"_Augh_!" Norrington cowered in the night air, ready to plummet downwards, but he felt no shocking thrill or rushing air of his descent. He took his hands away from his face cautiously, hardly daring to believe it. But no; there were his dark ruby-colored slippers, high above the ground, the cobblestones a distance below him. Norrington waited with shaky breaths, waiting to fall, waiting to feel the hard ground- but it never came. He was airborne, floating in a gravity-defying pose above the Port Royal streets. Tentatively, he flapped his arms.

"Fun, ain't it?" Jack drifted beside him, floating on his back, hands crossed behind his head, one boot over the other.

"No." Norrington was as stubborn and cranky as ever.

"Suit yourself," shrugged Jack. "Don't be too reckless and wild or do anything stupid."

"I never do stupid things!"

"Oh, we all know that, Norri," replied Jack sarcastically. "Now, let's go and check up on your bratty child self, shall we?" He flipped over midair and pushed out toward the horizon of the sapphire sky, where the stars were sprinkled like snowflakes. Norrington tried to do the same flick, but he had much more difficulty; he was younger than Jack, true, but he was not as agile. Then, once he was in a somewhat horizontal position, he waved his arms and followed Jack- as if he had any other choice.

* * *

And then it all changed. Beneath him, where there once were mostly fancy brick buildings, numerous lampposts, and neatly set stone streets with distinguishable squares, was a totally new view; a long country road stretched below him, rugged and wild, covered by snowdrifts and shaggy ponies drawing sleighs full of laughing people, all bundled up for Christmas; ramshackle houses, large and cumbersome, dotted the fields. Farther along there was a town square, with shops crowding around in, as if each one were eager to find a place in the village; not far from this square was a church, next to a bridge and ice-covered river. Norrington landed heavily on the road, dusting himself off as he looked around at his old home in England.

"So, this seem somewhat familiar to you?" inquired Jack.

Norrington started; he had forgotten the "Spirit" was there. "Familiar? Ha! I could walk this town blindfolded!" He peered around at all the townsfolk passing him by, and found he could name each one- he recognized them, and it warmed his frigid heart to see their rosy faces. But they seemed not to recognize him; they barely even glanced at the Commodore in his robe and nightcap.

"They don't know we're here," explained Jack. "We're only passing through a memory." He looked around at the passer-by with interest, stroking his braided beard. "Now, let's get going and find out where you are."

Norrington knew exactly where his past self would be, and he felt a pang of sadness- very unusual for him. He and Jack headed down the bustled road, past the church and town square, down to an old, dismal-looking building that made one think of Norrington's mansion back in the present. Norrington inwardly cringed to see the building again, knowing full well what was inside it and what he had endured- his school.

Jack was looking at his parchment again. "What the bloody hell… it says some kind of schoolhouse- why would we go there? Oh yeah- you're going to be there, aren't you, mate? Why any doting parent would send one of their kids there is beyond me." He scrutinized the brick building with a look of disgust.

Norrington sighed and pushed past Jack into the school. If he had been in his past life, his footsteps would have echoed throughout the dusty building. Long rows of desks were stretched across the school's large room- empty, uninhabited, save for only forlorn figure stooped over a long roll of parchment, a droopy quill in hand.

It was a boy, young, of about thirteen years of age, with neatly combed brown hair and a smooth mahogany-colored jacket; he looked well-fed and from a fairly wealthy family. But it was the boy's face that made pity gnaw at Norrington's chest- the boy's face was thin and blank, his green eyes blinking furiously as he scratched away with his quill. It was obvious from his expression that he dreaded doing this work, and greatly wanted to be playing with the roughhousing boys outside, as he cast a glance toward the frost-covered window. A fire sparked in the grate, but a faint cloud of vapour still protruded from the lad's mouth.

Just then the doors behind the watching Norrington and Jack opened, and a little girl came streaking in, her nutmeg hair flying about her little face, her cheeks like rose petals; she ran up to the boy and gave him a hug. He turned from his work and hugged her back, and she looked up at him with olive eyes- eyes that were just like the boy's.

"I've come to bring you home, James!" she cried breathlessly.

"Is that so, Isabelle?" The boy smiled back at her.

"Yes, James, yes!" Isabelle jumped up and down happily with energy only a child of her young age could have. I asked Father, and he said he would send a-a coach over, and, and you'd be coming home- to stay! You'll be a man, and you'll never have to come back here! Ever!" She clapped her small hands together. "We'll have a wonderful Christmas this year, won't we, James?"

James grinned and ruffled her hair. "That we will, dear sister. That we will."

The James Norrington from the future looked away from this scene, eyes closed; how could he have forgotten little Isabelle, his dear, kind-hearted little sister?

"Oy!" Jack's voice reached him sharply. "What's that on your cheek there?"

Norri jerked his head toward the pirate who was trying to pose as a Spirit- and doing a bad job of it, in the Commodore's opinion. "It's, uh, um, a pimple," he said coldly, brushing his hand near his cheek where the supposed "pimple" was.

Jack continued, having shamed Norrington, his old enemy- something he often liked to do. "Cute little lass. Not bad looking, either- surprised she's related to you, Norri. Didn't she get sick or something?"

"Yes," whispered Norrington faintly, pain flooding through him. Pain, and sadness, and old memories he would have rather left forgotten…

"Now!" Jack slapped his hands together. "Let's find another memory, shall we?"

Before Norrington could respond. the schoolroom in front of him swirled into another image, and his child self and sister disappeared. In their place was a considerably different location. Norrington looked around in confusion; he was surrounded by people- and, unfortunately, Jack was still there too, eyeing a rather pretty-looking woman with a grin. The Commodore rolled his green eyes and saw that he and the Spirit were in some sort of ballroom, with a high ceiling and a grand chandelier dangling from its centre. Guests were talking and dancing around them, and there was a light, happy mood about the place, and as Norrington looked around further, he saw why: everywhere he looked, draped over a banister or lining a table, were boughs of pine, dotted with bright holly berries and frosted pinecones, all topped with a red ribbon. In one corner there was a huge evergreen tree, glimmering with tinsel and a few well-placed candles. The Commodore groaned; it was obviously Christmastime.

Lively violin music played from a platform in the large room, and many were dancing to its melodies; Norrington found his slipper tapping a beat on the ground, and upon realizing this he quickly froze its motion. _This_ James Norrington would not be caught dancing- not even in a memory from the past.

But the former James Norrington obviously did. A tall figure brushed by the older Norrington, and with a start the Commodore recognized himself. He curiously followed his past self, keeping an eye on the familiar white wig; the younger Norrington was obviously heading to something specific.

"Ah, Captain Norrington!" A smiling figure bustled up to the past Norrington, and the future Norrington instantly recognized Governor Weatherby Swann.

"Governor Swann." Norrington dipped his head politely. "A splendid ball, don't you think? An excellent turnout- well, almost." He squinted at someone over the Governor's shoulder, but the future Norrington couldn't see who it was. "How is Elizabeth faring?" the Captain Norrington went on.

"Wonderful, wonderful!" exclaimed Governor Swann. "Oh, I can't believe she's seventeen now! Hopefully she'll find a suitor at this ball- what do you think, _Captain_?" The governor smiled at Norrington knowingly, and the captain smiled back sheepishly.

"Ah, good old Governor Swann," reminisced Norrington from the future, regretfully thinking of the poor man's unfortunate death, carried out by Beckett. "But where is…" He turned quickly, his nightcap askew, and there, he saw her, Elizabeth, donning an emerald dress of the finest quality; the rich green blended perfectly with the sprigs of pine decorating the room. Her honey locks were pinned up at the top of her neck, a few strands cascading behind her high cheekbones. Right now she was talking to another woman, laughing gaily, her brown eyes twinkling. For a moment, Norrington felt mesmerized by the teenager in front of him.

"Oh, yeah, _her_." Jack strutted over and leaned on Norrington's shoulder nonchalantly, not noticing the Commodore's resulting look of disgust. "Quite a looker, isn't she? And there, look- the whelp!"

_The whelp?_ Norrington peered in the direction Jack's dirty finger was pointing, and saw an awkward figure standing near the gigantic Christmas tree. His hands were behind his back, and he was gazing out at the throng of guests, and Norrington saw that his eyes were focused on Elizabeth. Norrington groaned; it had to be William Turner.

"Why doesn't he just bloody go up to the lass and dance with her?" mumbled Jack. "If I hadn't come along, he'd still be like that now, mark my words." He rolled his kohl-lined eyes, then poked Norrington in the arm. "Oh, but _you'll_ dance with her."

Indeed, Captain Norrington had walked up to Elizabeth Swann; the Commodore could see his lips moving, and him bowing slightly. Elizabeth hesitated for a moment, and drew a delicate hand for the Captain to take. The fiddlers at the platform were gliding their bows over their strings to a jig.

Norrington watched as his past self danced with Elizabeth, spinning and twirling, her skirt sweeping about her legs. Her elegant body and lively dance moves surpassed all the other ladies' at the ball, and he, with his white wig, navy coat, and tall figure, looked very distinguished; many people standing by watched the couple dance.

One of these people, Norrington now saw, was Will Turner.

His bright brown eyes were fixed entirely on Elizabeth, and there was a clear look of longing in them. He wanted to dance with her, feel her, hold her- just as Norrington was doing now.

_Good riddance_, thought Norrington with a smirk; he relished every opportunity when Elizabeth's attention was entirely focused on him, not that underclass blacksmith. He turned back to his past self dancing with Miss Swann.

Unfortunately, Turner had ventured out from the safety of the tree's branches, and seemed to be heading in their direction; but a group of chattering women had blocked his path. Norrington thanked them in his mind; Elizabeth couldn't see the boy now, and her entire attention seemed to be focused on Captain Norrington.

But just then, right in the middle of the dance, Turner brushed past the women and backed away- right into Elizabeth and Norrington. All three stumbled, and the dancing pair broke apart. Elizabeth turned to see who it was- and came face to face with Will.

Turner's face was flushed with embarrassment. "I-I'm terribly sorry, Miss Swann- and Captain," he added quickly, looking over Elizabeth's shoulder to see the Captain's angry face.

"That's all right, Will," said Elizabeth, trying to look in Will's eyes, but this was hard to do, as he was keeping his head ducked. But Will must have felt her gaze, because he raised his head, and for a moment, brown eyes locked brown eyes.

Will swallowed. "Miss Swann," he began. "May I-"

Norrington intercepted. "Elizabeth," said the Captain, "may we continue our dance?" Elizabeth tore her eyes away from Will to Norrington and nodded. And now, from the older Norrington's perspective, he could see Will's eyes fill with hurt. The young blacksmith's apprentice turned away and vanished behind a group of gossip-swappers.

The future Norrington also saw something else that he had not noticed before: the wistful, curious look that Elizabeth gave the retreating Will Turner before continuing to dance with Norrington.

"H-he wanted to dance with her!" spluttered Norrington in outrage.

"And she with him, I think," put in Jack.

Norrington glared at the pirate, but something at the bottom of his cold, vengeful heart told him it was true.

"Poor lad," continued Jack. "You could tell he wanted her. And, though it's no difference to me, the state of his dress clothes was not as dressy as your dress clothes, Norri. And let's not forget the fact he's a eunuch. That too."

"Eunuch?"

"Uh, I think it's time to find another memory." Jack clapped his ring-encased fingers together, and the ballroom melted into another scene- one Norrington knew well.

"My house!" he exclaimed. "And this is my sitting room!" There they were- the rust-red chairs, the gold-lined sofas, the polished wood tables; they were in fairly good condition, not as decayed as the furniture at the present-day Norrington mansion, but Norrington could see a thin layer of dust gathering over the velvet tops.

"I should get a maid to dust those," muttered Norrington. Jack heard this and grinned.

"Tell her not to forget the wigs!" Jack said, only to receive the normal glower from the Commodore at his side. "Okay, let's figure out what's going on here."

A younger James Norrington was standing by the French window, staring out at the dull, grey skies. His hands were behind his back, and he appeared to be in deep thought as the melancholy day played before him.

"Excuse me, Commodore." Both Norringtons turned around to face a certain Lieutenant Groves, who was standing at the door holding a few envelopes.

"Yes, what is it, Groves?"

"Two letters for you, sir. One's from Governor Swann, considering his daughter's anniversary ball."

"Ah, yes." Norrington's eyes darkened, from anger or regret, the other Norrington couldn't tell. "It's been about a year, now, since her marriage to _William Turner_, correct?" The future Commodore could hear veiled disgust put into the name.

"Correct, sir. Will you be attending?"

"I daresay I shall."

"Right. I'll forward your response to the Governor." Groves slipped one of the letters behind the other. "And here's another one… from your old governess in London."

At this Norrington strode forward and snatched the letter from the Lieutenant's hand. Groves backed away slowly as the Commodore sat down at one of the sofas and opened the envelope enclosing the letter.

The former Norrington knew what was coming, and he collapsed onto the floor, face in hands. The Norrington on the couch traced his eyes over the parchment's words for a moment, his face growing white. He set the parchment down with a shaken hand.

"S-sir?" asked Groves timidly.

Norrington closed his eyes and drew in a shaky breath. "It's Isabelle," he said softly. "My sister; she's… she lost her battle." He covered his face with a hand- pretty much the only display of grief this Norrington would show.

"Oh…" Groves seemed lost for words- as most of us would be like in this position. He came over and put a hand on his friend's slumped shoulder. "I'm sorry, James."

Norrington did nothing, but merely accepted his Lieutenant's gesture of comfort.

"Oh, Sparrow!" cried the other Norrington on the floor. "Why do you torture me? I never wanted to relive this! Oh, Isabelle, dear sister…" Jack did nothing but stare at the Commodore, his eyes slightly glazed over.

"And Groves, a true friend… all these years… not one hint of affection towards him… oh, Jack, what have I done?"

"Made a right mess of things, I'd say," said Jack.

"Why do you torture me?" repeated Norrington in anguish.

Jack said nothing, only looked on sorrowfully. He touched Norrington's shaking shoulder softly- an unusual gesture- and Norrington felt a soft breeze about his face, and the fluttering of his robe. For a moment, as he crouched there on the ground, it felt like he was soaring through the air again, but the moment passed, and Norrington opened his eyes tentatively.

He was in his room again, huddled on the floor. Standing up, he looked around for the Spirit, but Jack was nowhere to be seen. Norrington stumbled over to the open window, and, for just an instant, saw a small figure diving about in the ebony sky, emitting whoops of laughter. A smile pulled at the corners of Norrington's tired mouth, but he tried to ignore it as he closed the windows tightly and flopped back into the bed in a state of utter weariness and sorrow. As you may not be surprised to find out, he fell asleep upon the instant- before another Spirit could plague him.

* * *

Why do these always end with Norrington falling asleep? Huh! I hope I haven't vandalized poor Jack… or any other character for that matter. As you can probably see, I have a soft spot for Groves. ;) Review, and I'll give you a humbug. Er… I mean… yeahhh…

Second spirit coming up!


	3. The Second of the Three Spirits

Here's one more before Christmas Eve. Spirit Number Two is "present"! Yeah, I know, I'm lame. This character may not fit Dickens' Spirit of Christmas Present, but I used him anyway, because he's a personal favourite of mine. Read on!!!

* * *

Norrington was snoring away fitfully when the clock's bell chimed one again. He sprang up in bed mid-snore, looking about himself wildly. _One o' clock_? It couldn't be one o' clock! It had already happened! Jack had visited him, claiming to be a Christmas Spirit… unless… it had all been a dream. Yes, a dream, Norrington told himself- no more than a horrible nightmare. But what an odd nightmare indeed…

Just then Norrington noticed there was something different about his room. He blinked, and it dawned on him. _His room was covered in boughs of pine._ Everywhere, hanging over the fireplace and strung across the window were great ropes of evergreen, much like the ones that had adorned the Swann ballroom. Holly, mistletoe, and ivy was sprinkled throughout the masses of needles, along with pinecones and acorns, with red-and-gold ribbon tied on bows along corners; a frosting of snow and sparkles completed the decorations. And, for some reason, there were green apples hidden among the wreaths. A roaring fire was ablaze behind the grate; you could almost hear the chimney sighing, after being deprived of such a heat for so long.

But the thing that really caught your attention was in the centre of the room. A great pile of food was gathered there, all in a heap, but organized in a very presentable, delicious way. There were roasted ducks, sugar-sprinkled apple pies, tangy oranges, baked hams with wisps of steam rising off them, hot chestnuts, fat, butter-smeared potatoes, boats of gravy, sweet plums, puddings, cakes covered with powder, honey buns, stuffed geese, rolls of sausage, crimson cherries, soft white rolls… all lined with a rainbow of apples.

And, on top of this pile of luscious edibles, gripping an apple, was no other than Hector Barbossa.

"Ye'd best start believing in ghost stories, Commodore," grinned Barbossa in his raspy voice. "You're in one!" He sunk his rotten teeth deep into the clean, shiny skin of the apple with a loud _crunch_, the juice dribbling down his chin. Norrington looked away in disgust.

"C'mon, stand up, then!" Barbossa waved the apple at him. "Get outta bed. I'm the Ghost of Christmas Present. Means now." His yellow eyes glinted at Norrington, who timidly slid out from his covers.

_So it hadn't been a dream_, thought Norrington as he shuffled toward the food pile, the aromas wafted around him. Jack had actually come, and now Barbossa, the once-dreaded captain of the Black Pearl- why did they all have to be pirates?

"I know why you're here," began Norrington as Barbossa gnawed on a hunk of bread, "so can you show me what you want me to see?"

Barbossa suddenly leaped down from the food mountain, right next to Norrington, startling the Commodore (for with his black plumed hat, Barbossa towered above him). The pirate tossed his bitten apple over his shoulder and said, "Touch me coat."

Norrington drew out a hand and gingerly obliged; the warmly-lit bedroom vanished and was replaced by the bustling streets of Port Royal. Civilians trotted by, some stopping to chat with their friends, or to duck into a bakery or greengrocer. Norrington stared at everything around him with new eyes, noticing the smiles, the cloaks of the passer-by, some shabby, some elaborate, some wrapped around a small form, others hanging off a set of wide shoulders. Barbossa strode through, inspecting the people like Norrington was. The houses and shops crowded around them for most of the path, but they thinned out as they headed down the road.

"Ah, here we are!" Barbossa suddenly stopped, and Norrington, not expecting this, fell forward. The pirate captain grabbed a hold of his dressing-gown with his gnarled hands and hauled him up again, so that Norrington could see the house they had stopped by.

They were at the outskirts of town, and a smooth hill rose before them; beyond it, Norrington could see the sea. Trees lined the other side of the hill, the clearing barely visible within their depths. At the top of the hill, just behind the shore of the ocean, was a house; small in comparison to Norrington's mansion, made of wood. A ramshackle chimney rose out of the roof, and a plume of smoke rose out of the bricks. Flattened stones formed a path up to the house, welcoming visitors.

Barbossa sauntered up the path, his boots crunching on the slates; Norrington followed him. They did not, however, enter through the door like Norrington had expected, but instead peered into the house through the large window in the side of the house that overlooked the ocean. Norrington looked through the glass, smudged with the fingerprints of children, and saw the inside of the Turner's dining room.

He could see Elizabeth, pulling a red cloth over a scratched table, tugging the edges to make them even. A plump woman was at the hearth in the kitchen, which was slightly visible from Norrington's position at the window, roasting something on a skewer. Elizabeth stood back to inspect the table-cloth's position, and a young girl, of about five years of age, ran up to her, holding two candles; Elizabeth took them with a smile and stroked the girl's dark curls- the same hair and brown eyes of Will Turner.

Another girl, about ten years old, walked to the table, staggering under the weight of many plates. Her face was much like Elizabeth's; the same eyes and mouth. Her hair was much like her mothers, save for the fact it was a shade darker. There was something in the way she walked that reminded Norrington of her father, but it was clear it was the Swann blood that dominated in her looks.

"When are Da and Little Jack gettin' home?" she asked in a disgruntled tone.

"I don't know 'bout that Jack," said a voice in the living room, beyond the dining area, "but there's certainly another Jack here, Maggie, me lass." A grinning figure emerged from behind a couch.

"Uncle Jack!" cried Margaret, or Maggie, setting the remainder of the plates on the table with a clatter. She rushed over to the pirate and enveloped him in a hug.

"Hey!" grunted Jack. "Easy on the goods, love." But Norrington could see the roguish grin that lit up Jack's face, revealing his gold-capped teeth.

"UNCLE JACK!" A piercing yell reached Norrington through the window, and he saw the younger girl streak out through the kitchen and cling to one of Jack's legs. Jack looked down at the little lass, still smiling, as he jiggled his foot slightly. The girl still kept a firm grip on his boot. With more effort, Jack shook his leg again, but to no avail; the girl held tight. Elizabeth and Margaret watched this exchange with amusement.

"Uh, Lucy…" Jack tried to shake her off again. When this didn't work, he started to strut around the house, as if a young girl weren't hanging off his leg in a death grip. Margaret and Elizabeth burst out laughing, and Lucy grinned up at Jack mischievously. Jack held back for a second, then joined in with the laughter, as he suddenly slipped his foot out of his boot and took off running down the hall, the Turner daughters in hot pursuit.

The front door opened and a boy in his early teens came in, his dark hair dusted with snowflakes, his cheeks rosy from the chill. He kicked off his boots and stared at the scene in front of him in curiosity.

"Help us, Colin!" cried Lucy breathlessly as Jack leaped over a sofa. "We gotta catch Uncle Jack!" The boy face brightened with a smile identical to Will's, and he joined in the chase over the furniture.

Jack skidded over to the ladder leading up to the loft and clambered up a few rungs, then turned to the kids and said, "Alas, my children, this is the day you will always remember as the day you almost caught Uncle Jack Spar-" But the children had run over and yanked him off the ladder before Jack could finish the familiar sentence.

Elizabeth and the older woman had just finished setting the places at the table and drew back to see Jack under a pile of scrambling children.

"Help! Lizzy!" Jack waved his arms helplessly. "Your little beasties are taking my affects! And my hat!" he added as Colin set the tricorn atop his brown curls (it slipped down over his eyes).

Elizabeth crossed her arms and smiled at Jack in mock concern. "Well, Mr Sparrow," she said. "It seems like you've got a dilemma on your hands."

"Bloody right," growled Jack from underneath the three children.

The chubby woman who had been helping Elizabeth stepped forward. "All right, children," he said in a cheerful, motherly tone, "get off your uncle; your father and brother will be home soon! Remember, we want to surprise them!"

"Right!" The children quickly scrambled up, Colin giving Jack his tricorn, and Lucy his boot, which Jack shoved over his grubby foot. "Hide, Uncle Jack, hide!" Three pairs of hands shoved the dread-locked head behind the sofa which Margaret had discovered him. Lucy rushed up to the door and opened it a crack.

"Here they are!" she exclaimed breathlessly. Elizabeth and the others rushed over.

Barbossa poked Norrington in the arm, herding him toward the trail. Norrington glanced down and saw a tall figure trot up the path. As the person drew closer, Norrington saw that it was Will Turner, with a small child upon his muscular shoulders. The boy clung to his father with one hand, and in the other he waved a tiny wooden crutch, pointing it in the direction of the house.

"We're home, Daddy! See?" The boy had a small, high voice that was illuminated with brightness only a child of his age could muster.

"Right you are, Little Jack!" Will smiled up at his son. "Let's go in to that dinner Mrs Tuck's cooked up for us!" Mrs Tuck, Norrington figured was the woman inside- the only official servant of the Turner family. In consideration to the many people working at Norrington's manor, he thought this was a pitifully small amount.

But now, Norrington realized, he was much, much poorer than the Turners. Much poorer indeed. You just had to see the love that abounded when Will and Little Jack entered into their home, with the entire family greeting them. The father sent his son down carefully, and the mother kissed the little boy upon the cheek and took off his scarf. The two older children fussed over their younger brother and helped him with his crutch, and Lucy bubbled on to him about some event or other, while Elizabeth gave Will a kiss- not too passionate, mind you, in front of the children. Kind words were exchanged with Mrs Tuck, and Norrington could see she was considered part of the family too. Yes, love was very much present in the Turner home- a permanent guest to stay with them forever, helping them throughout their hardest days.

For a moment, Norrington felt a tinge of sorrow and regret, as though he had truly missed out on something all these lonely years.

"Nice family, are they not?" rasped Barbossa. "With the small exception of that bastard behind the furniture."

Will, with one arm wrapped around his wife's waist, strode into the family room and asked, "Where's Jack?"

"Not coming," said Elizabeth with a straight face.

"Not coming?" Will's face fell.

And the "bastard" revealed himself ("Now let's set that straight, dear William; if I had suddenly decided not to show up for a scrumptious and entirely filling meal, not to mention free rum, I wouldn't have come then to leave it all with you, savvy?"), much to the delight of Will and Little Jack, who hobbled forward on his crutch to hug his adopted uncle.

Norrington felt something tug at his chilled heart when he looked at the little lad, struggling to walk forward. It was obviously hard for Little Jack to get around, but the boy never said anything, not a word, only kept a bright smile on his round cheeks.

"Barbossa…" he asked tentatively. "What is wrong with that child? Why does he need a cane to walk?"

Barbossa shook his head. "The Turners not be a knowin' that, seein' as they can't afford a doctor. The boy's been like that for all his seven years of life."

"They can't afford a physician?" Norrington inquired in disbelief.

"No," growled Barbossa. "Not with that meagre pay you bestow upon the Turner whelp who works for ye."

Guilt simmered in Norrington's chest; how could he have done this to the family, and to poor Little Jack? For some odd reason, he felt attached to this little mite, like he had a connection to him, and a fire suddenly ignited inside him; he would help Jack Turner in any way possible.

Just then the children started a mad scramble for seating at the table, Colin (who was the most subdued of the bunch) helping his little brother. Margaret tried to claim a seat at the head for herself, but Jack nudged her out of it as he walked by, only to receive a look of death from the lass.

"This chair be going to the guest of honour, love," Jack slurred as he flopped down on it, opening a bottle of dark liquid.

"JACK SPARROW!" Jack put down his bottle guiltily as Elizabeth marched over. "How many times do I have to tell you that rum is not allowed in this house?"

"I dunno- around five million bloody times, perhaps?" Jack looked at her innocently, but Elizabeth knew better; she shoved him out of the seat.

"Besides," she said, "that's _my_ chair." Jack sulked and collapsed at another seating on the side of the rectangular table, squinting accusingly at Will, who had been watching this scene with interest. Will shrugged and turned to the kitchen to help the women.

Once Lucy and Little Jack had been seated on either side of the rum-drinking pirate, and Colin and Margaret on the other side facing them, Elizabeth brushed out of the kitchen with a couple of plates, Mrs Tuck in tow, holding a platter laden with a roast turkey. The younger two squealed with delight.

"It's so big," gushed Little Jack in awe as the turkey was set down in the centre of the table. Will, who had been carrying a pitcher of cider, grinned and sat down along with Mrs Tuck and Elizabeth.

Norrington, as he stared at the supper laid down in front of the family, thought otherwise; the turkeys he had feasted on, back when he had celebrated Christmas, were much larger, and there were not this many people to serve; he doubted everyone would get their fair share of meat. Alongside the poultry was a bowl of whipped potatoes, white and fluffy, a basket of soft rolls, and a tub of gravy; these too were not equivalent to the variety of foods Norrington had dined on.

But the family appeared not to notice; they only eyed the meal hungrily, and Norrington could see why; judging from the appearance of the meal, Mrs Tuck knew her trade well. He licked his lips, trying to stop his mouth from watering.

Will spoke as soon as everyone had quieted down. "I have only one thing to say; Merry Christmas! Let's begin this wonderful meal Mrs Tuck has prepared for us!" Mrs Tuck beamed with pride as everyone nodded in agreement and started to dig in. Margaret and Colin had no trouble serving themselves, and Little Jack did fair enough, but Lucy needed the help of her mother, who was seated to her left. The older Jack of course was very sloppy as he ate and talked with his mouth full, much to the disgust of Will and Elizabeth, who were the only two besides Mrs Tuck even trying to practice manners.

"Nice grub, love," he called to Mrs Tuck, which only received him further glowers from Elizabeth; but the kind-hearted cook only brightened all the more.

Norrington noticed that, although the children had adequate amounts of food on their plates, Will and Elizabeth had given up a small portion of their rightful share so that their offspring could have more to eat; their plates were filled a little more than halfway, and they did not take second helpings. The Commodore then realized just how deeply a parent could care for their child.

Soon the meal was finished, and everybody leaned back in their chairs in contentment. A few moments later, Will raised his nearly-empty mug of cider.

"Now to toasts!" he said brightly. "The first, I suppose, should go to the long awaited arrival of Jack Sparrow!"

"_Captain_ Jack Sparrow, if you please."

"Next to our chef, Mrs Tuck!"

"Yay, Mrs Tuck!" called Lucy.

"And one to Commodore Norrington, the provider of this meal!" added Will. Norrington started upon hearing the toast to his name.

"_Commodore Norrington_?" repeated Elizabeth. "You want to toast to _him_, that selfish pig?"

"It is Christmas after all, Elizabeth," said Will nervously, lowering his mug slightly.

"Christmas or not," said Elizabeth angrily, "You know better than I do he's grown as cold and unfeeling as an ogre! … But fine, if you insist, I'll drink to him, but only for your sake, Will, not his!" The others silently agreed with her.

Well, except for Jack, naturally. "Bloody stupid puff-ball head," he growled.

Norrington felt shocked, angry, and saddened all at once that everyone should hate him so much. Was he really that heartless?

"Aye, indeed, ye were, Commodore," said Barbossa craftily, as though reading his mind. Norrington looked to him in confusion.

Inside, Will gave up. "Okay, fine! I see I'm alone in my thinking! Well, here's to us all- to a Merry Christmas!" He raised his cup high again, and everyone joined him.

"Merry Christmas to all!"

"And God bless us, every one!" piped up Little Jack.

Will glanced at the little boy, both fondly and sadly. "Yes, my boy," he said softly. "God bless us every one."

Following this Mrs Tuck stood up and announced she was going to bring out the pudding. At this the clamour started up again, Jack calling out, "Pudding? I love pudding! Alcohol and drunkenness all around!"

"That's not the only thing that'll be going around when I'm through with ye." Barbossa whipped around and started trotting down towards the path. It took a moment for Norrington to realize he had gone.

"Wait! Barbossa!" he called as he shuffled after him. "What about Little Jack? Will he live?"

"That is not for me to say," replied Barbossa mysteriously. "Now, get a move on, we don't have all night! Davy Jones himself set a time for me, and I don't intend to go past it! I still got to be finishing that feast waiting for me at the Dutchman." He started striding down the path, his arms swinging at the sides of his black coat, and Norrington, as always, stayed close behind, casting one lingering look at the Turner dwelling as he went.

* * *

The so-called Spirit led him to the darkest and most dismal parts of Port Royal; not that there were many, mind you, but sadly, there is a place like this in every city- you needn't look to far to find it. Norrington and Barbossa sure didn't. The less-fortunate citizens were curled into crumpled heaps along the black shadows of the alleys, scabbed knees brought up to their thin chests, long deprived of an ample Christmas dinner. Their eyes were blank, looking, but not really taking in their gloomy surroundings. Scruffy children huddled on paper-thin blankets, if any, while adults watched on with gaunt, hopeless faces. For the first time, Norrington looked poverty right in its engulfing, greedy face. And after all these years of being a Commodore, of being an influential person, of possessing the power to change this, he had barely noticed.

"Look!" Barbossa barked, pointing a yellowed fingernail in the direction of the homeless. "There they sit, feeling nothing, expecting nothing, living like nothing! While ye sit on your a and let it happen! You'd best start believing it, _Commodore_, because poverty exists! This is now, and if ye don't do something about it, it will be tomorrow too!"

Barbossa paused and coughed once, then pulled a gleaming green apple out of his coat pocket. Munching loudly on it, he said, "My time is almost up, Mr Norrington. Remember what ye have seen, and what you can do." Just then, the bell of the church nearby tolled twelve times, the gong-like sound a doom in echo.

He then whipped around suddenly, the dark feathers on his hat fluttering across Norrington's face. Norrington held his breath, but inevitably sneezed, and when he looked up, the infamous Captain Barbossa had gone, as if he had sunk into the inky night like a shadow. The very last stroke faded away in the very same manner.

And the Third Spirit started looming down the street very suddenly.

* * *

Who could it be??? Wait and find out! 


	4. The Third of the Three Spirits

Second-to-last chapter ahead! I'd like to thank the seven people who reviewed- NazgulQueen, Gothicdementor189, soupkitchen, Abydell, Smithy, Gravitea, and Sierra Janeway. You made my weekend!

Just to let you know, there are little to no funny bits in this chapter. This is among the most dramatic things I've written, but hopefully it isn't too bad. Here is the Third Spirit.

* * *

_Thump. Scrape. Thump. Scrape._

The ominous sound of the phantom's "footsteps" chilled Norrington to the marrow; he drew ever closer, the _thump scrap_ings echoing across the stones. As the tall, broad figure stepped into a patch of moonlight, Norrington saw who it was, and his knees buckled and quaked at the sight of him.

"You," said the deep, Scottish-accented voice, "have a debt to pay."

"Do I?" asked Norrington, his voice fainter than a whisper. He cleared his throat, ashamed of himself for being so scared, but he could not help it. "Are you the Ghost of Christmas Future?"

"Aye," rumbled Davy Jones. He then started marching toward Norrington, driving him back farther and farther, the captain's giant crab-claw swinging. "Ye've been Commodore for seventeen years, and ye have not been living up to it!" This was followed by a rather odd-sounding snort; but Davy Jones is known to make weird sounds.

"Actually, it was only fifteen years, thanks to Jack Sparrow."

"_Don't speak that name_!" Davy's blue eyes blazed.

"S-sure. Fine with me," stammered Norrington, the little puff-ball on the end of his night-cap jiggling.

Davy tossed his head, so that his beard's tentacles bounced. "Let's be on our way-_ah_." He sniffed and stalked off, a trembling Norrington in his wake.

* * *

The usual neat, orderly streets of Port Royal seemed to have been covered with a spiderweb of disarray, the bricks pale, chipped, and mould-covered. Only a few people jostled about, heads ducked down, not glancing up for anything or anyone. Jones stopped and pointed with his claw toward two men skulking around near a shop. When Norrington peered closer he saw that it was Groves and Gillette. His ears strained to hear what they were saying.

"Passed in the night, he did," said Groves solemnly, a sad look on his face.

"Aye, but he did." Gillette looked over at a house across the street. "What did he do with all his money?"

"I don't know," replied Groves, "but even if there is a lot left, his funeral won't be too grand. I doubt many would take it out of their time to attend, though I shall. Will you?"

"Only if there's lunch," said Gillette, laughing, Groves only smiling weakly in reply, and then started talking of other matters unimportant to Norrington.

"Who are they talking about?" he asked Davy.

The claw only pointed straight ahead with a glare from its owner. Norrington walked on, right to his mansion.

Suddenly the oaken doors flew open, and out came two women, their arms loaded with bundles and bags. It was Giselle and Scarlet, Jack Sparrow's wenches.

"Jackpot!" cried Giselle triumphantly. Scarlet laughed wildly.

"We'll make good use of this!" she cackled. "Thank you, old bugger! Rest easy in the grave! We send our love!" Then, with shrilled chortles, they sped off to who knows where.

Norrington, trembling, looked back at Davy. "How come… my future self isn't doing anything?"

"He doesna know," replied Davy. "He can do nothing. Come! We must travel elsewhere." He stalked off, in the direction, Norrington noticed with dread, of the Turner house.

The little brown house was perched in its normal spot, same as last time, but Norrington couldn't help feeling there was a shadow over the place, as if something awful had happened. He stopped at the edge of the path, suddenly reluctant to step any further.

But Davy pointed ahead with his crab hand, and Norrington inched closer, bracing himself for what was ahead, whatever it was. He pressed his face against the glass of the window as he had done with Barbossa; Davy watched on, his eyes like ice.

Elizabeth Turner was seated at the table, but there was nothing on it but a plate of meagre biscuits, which the now-older Turner children were munching half-heartedly. Her normally fiery eyes were dull, and there were dark circles underneath them. She ate nothing, did nothing, just stared straight out the window at the grey sky; she couldn't see Norrington nor the Flying Dutchman captain.

Something was wrong; Norrington felt it jarring up against his bones. What had happened to make Elizabeth so gaunt, and the children so thin? The children… Lucy was swinging a foot softly as she chewed on a biscuit; Margaret was crushing hers to a pile of crumbs, not even bothering to eat it; and Colin was staring at everyone worriedly, only taking small nibbles of his cookie. And then Norrington realized; Little Jack was not present, nor was Will.

But then the front door opened, and Norrington felt sure it would be Will, with the youngest Turner aboard his shoulders. But no; no child was with Will as he trudged inside, head down, rubbing his hand across his face before straightening and joining the rest of his family. He locked eyes with Colin for a moment, and nodded slightly at the young man; he then stepped up to Elizabeth in her chair and rested one of his hands on her thin shoulder. A hand fluttered up to rest upon his.

Norrington was shocked; what had happened to the naïve blacksmith apprentice and headstrong governor's daughter he had known so well? They seemed an age older, a world weaker, and a universe sadder; it was as if they had swam through an ocean of despair and anguish, wearing them down, dark waves engulfing them, drowning them; they seemed to be two different people. Will was a trifle thinner, not that he had been heavy in another time, and his handsome features were worn and tired, his mouth a thin line of sadness; and Elizabeth, brought up in a stately way of life, learning posture and propriety… all that seemed to be drained out of her- she slumped in the chair, not a trace of her noble upbringing alongside her.

Something was very wrong indeed.

"I-it's Sunday," said Will, his voice cracking. Elizabeth looked up at him and nodded glumly; Will gave her shoulder a squeeze. "It's going to happen on Sunday."

_Little Jack_…

"It's a beautiful place," continued Will softly. "When you… stand beside it, you can see the ocean- just as he would have wanted." His voice faded away into the cheerless air.

Will then collapsed into the chair beside Elizabeth, his hands supporting his face. He caught the eyes of the kids and smiled half-heartedly at them; Colin and Lucy returned it, but Margaret didn't even glance up, just continued to hammer the remaining crumbles of the biscuit.

Will turned to the empty chair beside him, and absentmindedly stroked it, whispering something under his breath that Norrington couldn't make out. With a pang of grief, Norrington realized that a small, wooden crutch was laid upon it: Little Jack's walking stick, which he had carried with him, the tool that had helped him to walk.

"Does Uncle Jack know, Dad?" asked Lucy tentatively.

At this both Will and Elizabeth looked up sharply. Elizabeth closed her eyes and said, "It might be a while before Uncle Jack knows about anything, darling." She and Will exchanged a look that only Colin and Norrington caught.

Just then the dumpy form of Mrs Tuck bustled in the room, asking Lucy if she would like to help her make tea. The little girl stood up and went into the kitchen with the old cook. Mrs Tuck, to Norrington, looked none the worse for wear; she seemed to be there to help the Turners pull through, in her warm, motherly manner- and distracting Lucy seemed to be the best thing to do, because as soon as the lass disappeared into the kitchen, Colin leaned forward, his eyes dark and searching.

"Where is Jack?" he asked his parents. Margaret looked up.

Will drew in a shaky breath. "Colin… Margaret… the new commodore-"

Margaret cut him off. "You mean Mr Spelford?"

"Yes," continued Will. "Well, a few months ago, he said…"

"…He said he would do anything to weed out any pirates or piracy left in the New World," said Elizabeth, "especially Jack Sparrow."

"So, Spelford sent off various ships, all sent after the Pearl," said Will. "The Black Pearl is the only pirate threat left in the Caribbean. It's very likely that… he succeeded."

"_What_?"

"You mean," ventured Colin, "that he got Jack?" His eyes were large and sorrowful.

Elizabeth closed her eyes. "It's very likely, Colin; we have to wait until they return."

Margaret was seething. "I bet that Spelford was just waiting for Norrington to leave so that _he_ could become Commodore and do this! And I thought Norrington was bad enough!"

Norrington felt his heart throbbing in his chest. _Just waiting for Norrington to leave…_ So he wasn't Commodore, at least not in this time… but then where was he?

Everything was gone, Norrington realized; Jack Sparrow, taken out by a new government official; Little Jack- poor, poor, Little Jack, gone… Norrington felt his heart wrenching, and for a moment, tears started to prick at his eyelids… that little boy…

And, of course, he himself was gone. But where? What was the connection with all this?

"So the little lad is dead," rumbled Davy Jones, "and presumably Jack Sparrow." He spat the name like it was a curse word. "They did name the boy after him; in fact, he also happened to bear your name as well, Norrington."

"My name?"

"Aye; his full name was Jack James Turner. Didna ye know?"

Norrington only shook his head in reply, feeling worse than ever. The Turners had slipped his name into one of their children, after all the hell he had put them through; he hadn't done anything to help this child, nothing- he'd never paid Will nearly enough for working for him, that was why they couldn't afford a doctor, that was why Little Jack was dead. Norrington felt the guilt thundering down upon him like a storm, surrounding him; he wanted nothing more than to curl up and wail.

"Come," said Davy. "We're gonnae go to one place more." He marched off, but Norrington didn't follow. He just stood there, staring sadly into the window, seeing the family he had ruined. He sighed, feeling a tear course down his cheek, and then softly touched the window.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and he turned slowly and trailed behind Davy, his head hanging.

* * *

Only when the drags and clunks of Davy's walk stopped did he look up again, and he froze, staring rigidly at the place where the captain had stopped. Black iron gates stretched up to the sky, which had changed from an afternoon grey to the black of midnight. Beyond the gate was a sea of dried grass and raised stones; a graveyard.

With a massive burst of energy, Norrington willed his slippers to step forward, to see what Davy wanted him to see. He inched closer and closer, between the twisting gates; closer and closer, through the headstones; closer and closer, through the dead, to where Davy was pointing with his claw, to one grave.

Norrington stopped suddenly, afraid to peer around the other side of the marble. "What is beyond this?' he cried, half to Davy, half to himself.

Davy jutted his claw forward without a word.

And Norrington stepped forward.

There, on the gray stone of the marker, with words as black as the sky above, were the words **JAMES NORRINGTON**.

"_NO_!" Norrington felt as through a bolt of lightening had ripped through him, shattering him, tearing him open to the heavens. He collapsed to his knees, landing upon the very ground that concealed his remains. "No, no, please, no!" he moaned, writhing on the snow.

"Davy Jones!" he cried in a voice full of anguish, "please, Captain!" Huddled in a mound, he looked at Davy, who was looming above him, his expression unreadable. "This is not me! I am a different man than I was! I can change! Please, let me go back!"

"There is nothing to be done," said Davy, "unless you choose to do so."

"I will cherish Christmas!" he sobbed, clutching at Davy's barnacle-encrusted coat. "I will keep it in my heart, for then and all year! Oh, Davy Jones, please do not take me to your Locker yet! I will heed these lessons, I will! I will change!"

Everything then started slipping away; the dark visions before him melded together into a dizzying array; he could take heed of nothing, do nothing; he was flying through the air, plummeting through a thousand winds; he was twisting and turning through an endless tunnel, the images of dark, threatening ghosts of all his bad deeds screaming in his ear…

Norrington, his last frays of consciousness slipping away in the miasma, opened his new eyes and saw the flapping of a cloak, blacker than the darkest night, flickering before his face, like a spectre. A fragment in his mind told him it was the curtains of his four-poster bed before complete oblivion took control of him, and he dissolved into nothingness.

* * *

Poor Norrington… If all goes well, I should have the next chapter up by Christmas, or maybe before that if I get too antsy. Reviews are welcome! 


	5. The New Morning

Sorry, I couldn't wait! This is the final chapter of Norrington's Christmas Carol story, and hopefully some of your questions will be answered. I've enjoyed writing this, and maybe you'll see from me in the future. I'm planning on doing pirates in high school…

Anyways, back to our favourite Commodore! Sorry about his OOCness in this chappie, but blame Charles Dickens, not me- he made Scrooge like this, so I have to do the same to Norri. Here goes nothing!

* * *

"Hmm?" Norrington blearily opened his eyes, golden sunlight falling across his face. He felt worn, as though he had walked for a decade and more, and he slumped against the pillows. Then, as though he had been stung by an insect, he sprang up, ripping the covers off himself. 

"The Spirits!" he cried. "Jack Sparrow, Barbossa, Davy Jones! They were here!" He bounced across the room and saw the bowl of spilled porridge, which had long grown cold. "Aha!" he cried joyfully. "It really happened! Beckett was here, he made me drop it! It was all true!" He then made a sound that had not issued from his throat for many long years; the sound of pure, jovial laughter.

"Oh, what day is it? Whatever it is, I don't care, so long as it's a morning! But a night wouldn't be too bad either! Good heavens, what's wrong with me? I feel as giddy as a drunkard!" laughed Norrington. He leapt across the room and threw the window open, breathing in warm, clean air, touched by a pleasant wind. A joyous chorus of bells was sounding in the air, the beautiful rings echoing throughout Port Royal. Norrington stood there and breathed deeply, listening to the silver sound.

He looked down fondly at the street, and who should he see but Pintel and Ragetti, bellowing out carols.

"Excuse me!" Norrington shouted, and the two jumped up and backed away; when they saw it was the Commodore, sporting a nightshirt and robe, they instantly shielded their heads, afraid of any flying objects. "What day is it?"

"Today?" said Pintel in disbelief. "Why, it's Christmas!"

"On Christmas Day, in the Moooor-nin'," sang Ragetti.

"Christmas? It's Christmas!" cried Norrington to himself. "I didn't miss it after all! The pirates did it all in one night!" He smiled brightly.

"Uh, so it's off to th' jail, then?" asked Pintel tentatively.

"What are you talking about?" exclaimed Norrington. "I wouldn't dream of it, gentlemen! Carry on, carry on; you have lovely voices!"

The two pirates exchanged quizzical glances, and then straightened up proudly. "I knew it awl along," boasted Ragetti.

"Hey," continued Norrington, "do you two know where the poultry seller is?" They nodded. "Have they sold the prize turkey yet?"

"Yuh mean th' really fat one?"

"Yes, that's the one!" replied Norrington. "Would you mind going over there and telling them to send it over to my place, so that I can tell them where to deliver it to? Oh, and I'll give you each three shillings!" That got them going; the two pirates sped down towards the designated shop.

"I'll send it to the Turners," Norrington mused to himself as he got dressed, "as a Christmas present! It's thrice the size of their other one! Isn't that right, Sophie?" The maid, who had just come in the room with a bowl of water, nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Uh, yes, yes, Commodore, yes!" she panted.

"Good girl," said the Commodore, smiling at the dumbfounded Sophie, who had never seen him so happy. "Merry Christmas!" he called over his shoulder as he streaked down the staircase and out the door.

* * *

It didn't take too long after for the turkey to arrive; it was so large nobody could carry it, so it had come in a cab. It was, by far, the biggest turkey Norrington had ever seen; in life, it must have been a monster of a bird. He paid three gleaming shillings each to an eagerly waiting Pintel and Ragetti and instructed the cab driver to take the turkey to the Turner's house. 

After all this had been sorted out, Norrington bounded down the street, bursting out little comments and greetings here and there to people he passed by, like some sort of wig-wearing fountain. Most people were genuinely surprised at their usual surly Commodore's cheerful new antics; among them were Murtogg and Mullroy.

"Ah! My good soldiers!" called Norrington as he trotted over to them. He eyed their wooden box. "Are you still collecting? Well, here's something!" He took out an entire bagful of coins and thumped it in the box; Murtogg staggered under the added weight.

"A-are you sure about this, Commodore?" asked Mullroy, goggling in disbelief.

"I've never been surer in my life! Do you need any more?"

"I-it's not necessary, sir," said Murtogg.

"But here it is anyway!" cried Norrington, depositing more shillings before taking off. "I'll be at the fort tomorrow, with my blade and gun at the ready, gentlemen." The soldiers only nodded shakily before going their own way.

"He's certainly happy about something," murmured Mullroy suspiciously.

"Don't be so distrustful, Mullroy!" scolded Murtogg. "It's Christmas!"

* * *

Norrington continued on his merry way to the fort, where Groves was pacing about. 

"Groves!" he called. The Lieutenant jumped and spun around to face him.

"Good morning, sir," said Groves, bowing his head.

"And a Merry Christmas to you, Theodore. I'll have you know I've been thinking about your offer, if I would spend Christmas dinner with your family and friends."

Groves nodded, wondering where all this was going.

"… And I must say that I'll attend!" Norrington went on.

"Really? What? But…" Groves could barely speak. "Oh, that's grand, James!"

"What a better way to spend Christmas," smiled Norrington, "than with old friends?" He clapped a hand on Groves' shoulder.

"I can't really think of one, Commodore." Groves grinned back, delighted at Norrington's change of heart.

"I'll be seeing you tonight!" Norrington yelled over his shoulder as he strode away. Groves waved, wondering what had happened to make the Commodore so happy.

* * *

Will was not there when Norrington had arrived at his office. Norrington only chuckled and waited for his employee to arrive. 

When Will finally did arrive, breathless and dishevelled, he instantly began stammering apologies. "D-deepest regrets, Commodore," he gasped.

"Why have you come at this time of day?" growled Norrington, summoning his old disgruntled spirit.

"Well, we were opening our gifts, you see, and…"

"Your gifts," repeated Norrington. "William Turner, we can not have this any longer! Because of this, I've decided to…"

Will braced himself.

"… to increase your salary, and reopen the smithy! Port Royal needs its blacksmith again! Oh, and give you the day off. It _is_ Christmas, is it not?" beamed Norrington.

Poor Will just stood there, dumbfounded.

"Yes, yes, I speak the truth," said Norrington. "I'm terribly sorry to have been so distant to you over the years. Let's forget our old scars, shall we, and start off on a new slate." He clapped Will on the back, causing the younger man to stumble forward.

"Oh, and I suggest you go home now!" said Norrington. "There's something there you'll want to see."

* * *

"It's the biggest turkey _ever_!" 

The Turners were delighted with the dinner Norrington had sent them. Aside from being a little afraid of Norrington, Lucy and Little Jack soon warmed up to him, and showed him their new toys. Norrington, although never having had prior experience with kids, showed them an equal kindness.

However, it did not escape Norrington's attention that the family was hiding something from him; Lucy kept on breaking into giggles every time she looked toward the sofa.

Norrington rolled his eyes and said, "Come out from there, Jack Sparrow." Two dark eyes peered cautiously from behind the furniture.

Will and Elizabeth exchanged a worried look. Norrington glanced around at all three of them before directing his eyes on Jack.

"Well, well, Jack Sparrow, isn't it?"

"_Captain _Jack Sparrow, if you please," slurred Jack, standing up.

"I don't see your ship, _Captain_," mused Norrington, "which means you must be housing with the Turners. No matter! Since today is Christmas, I'll give you one day's head start. Hmm?"

Will and Elizabeth stared in utter bewilderment.

"Well, I'm feeling rather good about this," said Jack, strutting out from behind the couch. "By the way, I'm still rooting for you, mate," he added to Norrington. "Now, let's start on that bird, shall we?" He started swaggering over to the turkey, which was resting on the table, only to be stopped by Elizabeth and Will.

Colin and Margaret, who were seated on the floor by Little Jack, gazed at Norrington in curiosity.

"Wonderful tree you have here," commented Norrington as he looked at the evergreen in the room's corner. "Who chopped it down?"

"Me," said Colin.

"Good, good!" said Norrington.

"I helped to decorate it!" piped Lucy.

"Me too!" added Little Jack. "I put the star on!"

Norrington smiled at the lad, imagining the small hand placing the tin star atop the tree, probably given a boost by another family member.

"Enjoyable boy," Norrington commented to the parents later on.

"Oh yes," said Elizabeth; she seemed to have welcomed Norrington back as a friend. "Little Jack's always filled with good cheer."

"But he needs a doctor," said Norrington.

Will looked down. "We can't afford a doctor."

"Nonsense; the bill will go to me!" replied Norrington. "I shall see to it that child is in the best of health. And, in the near future, as I mentioned before, the blacksmith shop will be opened again, with you installed as its master, Mr Turner. I can't believe I ever closed the place!"

Will had trouble concealing his delight; Elizabeth saw this and smiled.

Norrington spent a good portion of the day with the Turners before he bounded over to Groves' place for dinner. But before he left, he tried to ask Jack Sparrow about the whole ordeal that had occurred the previous night. Had it really, truly, and honestly happened? Had the miracle really occurred?

However, Jack only responded to Norrington's stutters with a toothy grin and a tip of his tricorn. For just a moment, organ music drifted on the air, like a whisper in Norrington's ear, and he thought he caught a glimpse of Barbossa's maniac laughter. It took but an instant for the sounds to disappear altogether, and for Jack Sparrow to strut away.

But that was all it took to convince Norrington.

And so, in the words of Little Jack: "God bless us, every one!"

**THE END**

* * *

Well, that's it- my first ever story with chapters, not to mention from Norrington's point of view. Whew!

A Merry Christmas to you all!! I'll see you in the New Year…

-Flightstorm


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